nd--not even yourself.

You will know which of the three best becomes a British boy. Be
assured, that which worst becomes him is _sulking_.

CHAPTER TEN.

THE EASY-GOING BOY.

It is a common complaint in these degenerate days that we live harder
than our fathers did. Whatever we do we rush at. We bolt our food, and
run for the train; we jump out of it before it has stopped, and reach
the school door just as the bell rings; we "cram" for our examinations,
and "spurt" for our prizes. We have no time to read books, so we
scuttle through the reviews, and consider ourselves up in the subject;
we cut short our letters home, and have no patience to sit and hear a
long story out. We race off with a chum for a week's holiday, and
consider we have dawdled unless we have covered our thirty miles a day,
and can name as visited a string of sights, mountains, lakes, and
valleys a full yard long.

If such charges are just (and they are, we fear, not wholly unfounded),
it is at least a satisfaction to know that there is one brilliant
exception to the rule, and that is in the person of Master Ned Easy.

Whatever other folk do, _he_ has no notion of hurrying himself. Some
one once said of him that he was a fellow who looked as if he'd been
born with his hands in his pockets. He takes his time about everything
he does. If the breakfast bell rings before he is dressed, then--well,
breakfast must wait. If breakfast is over before he has well begun,
then everybody else must wait while he, in a leisurely way, polishes off
his viands. In the classes, his is sure to be the last paper to be
handed up; and when the boys are dismissed, he saunters forth to the
playground in the rear of all the others. When he is one of a fishing-
party, and everybody but he is ready, he keeps them all waiting till
their patience is completely exhausted, while he gets together his
tackle, laces his boots, and selects his flies.

"Come on! look alive!" is the cry that is for ever being hurled at him,
"All serene, old fellow; what's the hurry?" is his invariable reply.

I well remember the first time I made Ned's acquaintance, and I will
recall the incident, as giving a fair specimen of the fellow and his
peculiarity.

It was a big cricket match, the afternoon was far advanced, the light
was getting uncertain, and time was almost up. Our school's ninth
wicket had fallen, and yet there were five runs to get to win, which we
could just do, if